


An Average Day On The Job

by lateralus112358



Series: Discussion Between Professionals [7]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 14:58:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12368199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lateralus112358/pseuds/lateralus112358
Summary: Special Agent Root and Dr. Shaw face off against an evil god in their final stand.Time travel, banter, feelings (and occasional denials thereof), and (possibly) other things all converge in this thrilling [citation needed] conclusion to the Dr. Shaw/Agent Root series.





	1. Chapter 1

Prologue

4:46 AM (two months before apotheosis)

A stolen ambulance with its back doors open sits inside an abandoned warehouse. John Reese, sitting in the back, legs hanging over the side, turns a page of his book.

It’s not particularly good. Whoever usually uses this ambulance has rather poor taste. 

Blessedly, he is distracted from the substandard literature by sudden motion in the warehouse. A woman appears less than twenty feet away. Tall, thin, and dark-haired, she remains upright for several seconds, then wavers, and collapses face-first onto the ground.

***

Part One: Apotheosis

 

 

“Don’t they have regular crime scene guys for this?”

Dr. Shaw, crouching over the heavily burned body, shields her eyes against the glare of the sun as she glances toward the stone lip surrounding the perimeter of the building’s roof, where Special Agent Root is standing. Root glances down, feeling the swoop in her stomach at the sight of the ten stories stretching out beneath her. She remains there a moment longer, then, satisfied with her nerve, hops back down onto the roof. She used to be afraid of heights, years and years ago, always giving high railings, balconies, and the like a wide berth.

She’s still afraid of heights. But now it doesn’t stop her.

“I prefer your company,” she remarks, crouching down beside Dr. Shaw. “And you’re more clever than they are, anyway.”

“Suck up.” Shaw mutters, continuing her examination of the body. The extent of the burning is horrific; almost the entire body is blackened, all clothes and almost any identifying marks burned away. Burnings themselves generally aren’t crimes that warrant the attention of a Special Agent, but given the degree of the burns, and the lack of any apparent means of effecting the crime, Root’s services had been requested by the police department. And, as has been her habit, she invited Dr. Shaw to come along. Despite Dr. Shaw’s frequent deadpan complaints, Root knows she finds the outings exciting. It is, in Root’s mind, one of her most attractive qualities.

The doctor even has her own official ‘Assistant to the Special Agent’ card (which Root had made for her), though she refuses to use it.

“Seems pretty cut-and-dried,” Shaw says, standing up and stretching. “You don’t need me to tell you this guy was burned to death. Unless you’re ever going to explain to me what this Samaritan thing actually wants, I’m not really doin’ any good here.”

“I don’t want to put you in danger, Sameen.”

Shaw snorts derisively at this. “What, like I wasn’t in danger all those times people were shooting at me?” She narrows her eyes. “And you’re not ‘putting’ me anywhere. It’s my choice.”

Root sighs. Shaw is incredibly stubborn; when she decides to set her feet, she’s like a mountain.

A short mountain. Root smiles to herself.

It’s probably time she explained the rest of it to Shaw, though. She already knows about Root’s time travel abilities, which, really, seems like the toughest revelation to reconcile, and Shaw did just fine with it. Root’s been trying to keep her two lives separate, but on reflection, this seems ridiculous given the extent to which Dr. Shaw has permeated every aspect of her life. Leaving Shaw in the dark probably just makes things more dangerous for her.

She tries to find the best place to start. “I’m not the only… ‘special’ person out there.”

“Never thought I’d hear you admit that.” Shaw quips.

Root gives her a ‘shush’ look, an expression she has perfected since meeting Shaw that incorporates a tilt of the head and a slight downward quirk of her lips. “Not the only one with powers. There are lots of them. Samaritan uses them.”

“Powers different from yours?” Shaw asks. “Or can you shoot fire from your eyes, too?”

“There are lots of different abilities out there. Didn’t you say the woman at the hospital was telekinetic?”

“Yeah,” Shaw spits. “Broke my leg. Bitch.” She looks over at Root. “So what about the healing thing? Is that one of the powers?”

“All Samaritan agents have that.” Root had discovered this the hard way. “Even when they have other powers. I’m not sure why.” She smiles at Shaw. “But now, thanks to you, I have it too.”

Since Shaw had saved her life by injecting her with a Samaritan agent’s blood several months ago, Root’s body has healed incredibly fast from almost any wound. The pain is still there (a stroke of good fortune for her and Shaw’s somewhat atypical sex life), but fades rapidly, and the injuries themselves disappear in a very short span of time as well. This was unfortunate in some ways; Root can’t see the marks Shaw’s teeth make on her skin anymore, and the delightful aches that previously resulted from the clash of their bodies have vanished. There are upsides, though. A Push still hurts, but the discomfort doesn’t linger very long anymore. Her usual side effect of headaches is almost entirely gone as well. 

Shaw expressed a great deal of surprise when she found out that Root’s healing had continued long after being injected with the blood; the doctor herself had to re-inject after just a few healings. Shaw had tried to keep several samples of the blood in case of emergency, but the bags she had stored in the freezer of her apartment had disappeared, and with all of the Samaritan agents in lockup either experiencing similar disappearances or suddenly deciding to commit suicide, the only sample remaining is presumably running through Root’s veins.

The robbery had left Shaw furious, and for several nights in a row she camped out in her kitchen, lights out, gun in hand, waiting for a recurrence of the crime, until increasing exhaustion and lack of success had driven her back to bed.

“So,” Shaw is saying now. “You said Samaritan ‘uses’ people with powers. ‘Uses’ them how? Just to kill random people? Why?”

“It uses them as soldiers. And as experiments. This,” she gestures at ruined body beside them. “Is more of a side effect of Samaritan’s main goal.”

“And what’s its main goal?”

“Recruitment. Like I said, it wants soldiers. So it finds people with powers, sends its agents after them, and enlists them.” Root shrugs. “I’ve tried to get there first, stop them from joining, but usually I’m too late. And they almost always join Samaritan. And when they don’t, it ends badly. Like this.” She points again at the body.

“Must be a hell of a recruiting pitch.” Shaw grunts.

Root recalls when she was actively trying to thwart Samaritan’s recruitment efforts. When her and her partner had been in the business of rescuing people, finding them before Samaritan did and getting them to safety. But then he vanished, and now it seems like the best she can manage is damage control. Hunting down Samaritan’s agents after they’ve murdered someone. Killing the same people she used to try and save.

“Anyway,” Shaw says, “Get this body back to the morgue and I’ll take a closer look, see if there’s anything we’re missing. You going to try and find the burner?”

“I think so,” Root replies. “I’ll probably go back to my place and try to get some sleep after. Catch you later? 

“Speaking of which,” Shaw says, as they walk across the roof to the door leading onto the stairwell. “The city’s having an event tonight. Some bullshit about raising awareness for something. Basically just an ego trip for every wannabe city player.”

“Sounds like a good time.” Root remarks, holding the door open.

“I’ve been the last three years in a row. Boring as hell.” Shaw stands in the doorway, looking back at Root. “You wanna go?”

“Absolutely.” 

Shaw smiles, and continues down the steps. Root closes the door and step back onto the roof. She walks over to the body, and stands a short distance away from it.

She cracks her knuckles.

Closes her eyes.

And Pushes.

***

Shaw, after demanding precise descriptions of all the sensations and symptoms Root experiences when Pushing, had forbidden her from attempting any long Pushes. Her supposition was that the healing doesn’t in any way inhibit damage from being done, it just repairs it quickly afterward. Thus, Shaw claimed, a long enough Push might well cause fatal damage to Root even with the healing power.

Root thought it was a bit of a stretch. More energy expended on a Push should just equal more energy for a healing, right? And anyway, Shaw can’t tell her what to do.

True, she has done exactly as Shaw had recommended, but that’s only because she thinks it’s probably sensible advice, and anyway going back really far just tends to be a pain in her ass. Besides which, her god has been almost entirely absent since before the shootout that left her in the hospital. Better to play it safe, for now.

‘Safe’ being a relative term, of course. 

Police reports put the fire incident at around 3 AM, so that’s what Root aims for. No sense in showing up beforehand and trying to save the hapless man; his death is already accounted for on the timeline, and the immutability of time would render any attempts by Root to prevent that outcome futile. Predestination is familiar concept to her now, though. Not chains, or a cage, but more of a comforting solidity, a known quantity that she can fall back on. True chronological mastery comes from riding time’s waves, not fighting them. And no one rides like Root.

Damn it, Shaw should have been around to hear that one. Root will have to scribble it down somewhere so she doesn’t forget it.

Her head twinges a bit, and then she’s there. Flames directly in front of her reduce all other visual input to dull background noise. Then the flames stop, the images still seared onto Root’s retinas, but through them she sees the form of a woman, smoke rising both from her hands and the body laid in front of her.

Talk about good timing.

The woman looks at Root in apparent bewilderment, then looks at the insides of her eyelids as she collapses on the ground, unconscious. The source of her sudden departure from the world of the waking slowly becomes visible; Root’s eyes finally recovering from their conflagratory onslaught. She grins.

Her dopplegänger grins back. “Want to help me with this body?”

“I’d love to.”

Another side effect of her new healing ability is the lack of temporal dissonance brought on by proximity to her time-clones. Fighting Samaritan agents has become almost ridiculously easy, though she has to be careful that they don’t actually see the other Roots. The files she’d seen in the Samaritan van months ago indicated that they were still in the dark about the nature of her ability, and as long as she maintains that mystery she has an advantage.

She helps dopple-Root drag the unconscious Samaritan agent across the roof, onto the stairwell and down several flights. Panting, arms aching, they drop her in a room off a main hallway. 

“I’ll call someone to pick her up,” dopple-Root says. “You can go up to the roof, then go back about fifteen minutes and wait for your cue. By the way,” she adds as Root turns away. “We look fantastic tonight.”

It is a delight, Root thinks, to work with such pleasant people.

***

A large school gymnasium serves as the venue for the night’s event, the room transformed into a display of all the opulence the city can bring to bear. Which isn’t a whole lot, presumably due to a limited budget, but the result is one that is quite pleasant, if stopping somewhat short of magnificent. Dozens of circular tables fill the room, each topped with candles and flowers. Almost anyone employed by the city government had been invited to the event. Political leaders, city councilors, and the like are present in abundance, but there are a great number of non-political occupations represented as well; teachers, doctors, police, a few researchers. The official reason for the gathering is unclear, most attendees being content to try and curry political favors. The air of pretension is palpable.

Root had been unsure why Shaw would have attended this sort of function so consistently, considering how it encompasses so many things that she despises. Then she saw the plates of food prepared at each table, and her confusion was swiftly swept away. Shaw consumes her steak with a look like ecstasy on her face. Root samples her food as well and finds it to be exquisite, but she’s mostly content to watch Shaw eat, occasionally glancing around at the milling crowd. 

“This is why at traditional galas, everyone wore masks,” she observes. “No one’s showing their real face.”

“Welcome to city politics,” Shaw says, in between bites of steak. “It was the same thing at the hospital. I was never any good at it. I’ve only got one face.”

“That’s why I love you,” Root says. “Your bluntness, I mean. Though I have no complaints about your face.”

Shaw looks away. “I thought it was the sex.”

“Well, that too,” Root smiles mischievously. “You are getting pretty good with that whip.”

The last remaining attendees at their table apparently reach their limit for uncomfortable conversation, and excuse themselves.

“‘Bout time.” Shaw mutters. She had ignored them the for the entirety of the meal. Root had made conversation at first, but had quickly grown bored and spent the rest of her time trying to unsettle them.

She crosses one leg over the other, noting with pleasure out of the corner of her eye how the action draws Shaw’s gaze. As a federal agent, she’s authorized to carry a weapon, so she’d worn her thigh holster, and strapped it low enough that it could be seen beneath the skirt of her dress, thinking that Shaw would find it a turn-on. The doctor’s unconscious lick of her lips suggests Root was right.

Dr. Shaw, of course, is stunning. Her hair is down, her top bares her back and shoulders, and since Root is the only person here she likes, the effort must be on her behalf.

Of course, Shaw has always looked good, even when she gave no shits about Root, but still, the agent would like to believe Shaw had her in mind when selecting her attire for the evening.

“I looked our crispy guy some more today,” Shaw says. “The burns didn’t kill him. His throat was slashed. Probably already dead before they set him on fire.”

This catches Root’s attention. “You’re sure?” she asks.

Shaw gives her a droll look. “No, because obviously I suck at my job.”

“Sorry, sweetie,” Root says with a contrite expression. “I’m just confused.”

“Seems like they were trying to hide it,” Shaw says. “But why? Why do they care if you know how the guy was killed?”

“I don’t know,” Ever since the shootout that ended with her being injecting with healing blood, it’s seemed like she’s been on top of Samaritan every step of the way, even getting ahead sometimes. Maybe that’s all been a ruse? Maybe they’ve just been letting her think she’s winning, to further some as yet unknown diabolical scheme. “Thank you for telling me,” she says to Shaw.

“You gonna go back again?” Shaw asks, taking a bite of the half-steak speared on her fork. Her knife sits forlornly on the table, apparently unused.

“I know you don’t want me to use my powers so often, Sameen.”

“You wanna get yourself killed, that’s your business,” Shaw says, gaze not moving from her steak. “But you’re a government agent, aren’t you? There’ve gotta be better ways for you to investigate stuff than hurling yourself through time whenever someone gets killed. Even if it is more mundane.”

“Is that what you want me to be?” Root asks, picking at a nail. “Mundane?”

“You’ll never be mundane.” Shaw grins, showing her teeth, and Root has a sudden image of those teeth at her neck, her shoulders, her legs, and tries to resist a shiver running through her.

She’s not entirely successful. To try and mask her reaction, she asks, “So how have your conferences been going?”

Over the last several months, Shaw has attended several medical conferences, requiring her to be out of town for days at a time. Root’s not entirely sure what the purpose of these gatherings is, discussing new autopsy procedures, maybe? Comparing the most interesting corpses? Learning new methods to tease one’s girlfriend until she’s just a puddle on the floor?

This last one seems likely, Root thinks, watching as Shaw smiles her I-know-you-think-I’m-sexy smile and adjusts her top. “Nothing particularly interesting,” she says. “Unless you like listening to a bunch of doctors ramble for hours.”

“I can think of one doctor I wouldn’t mind listening to.”

Shaw ignores this comment. “You coming over tonight?”

“Why?” Root smirks and leans closer to her. “Did you have something special in mind?”

“I’m off tomorrow,” Shaw says, not moving away. “Thought I’d grab a few beers, maybe watch a movie.”

“Sameen, are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Yeah. You’re hilarious when you’re drunk. Last time you couldn’t even figure out how to get my shirt off.”

Root pouts. “It’s not nice to make fun.”

“You’ll get over it,” Shaw says, laying her fork down on her now-empty plate, pushing her chair back and standing up. “You think we can find an empty bathroom in this place?”

***

They find a closet instead of a bathroom. Probably storage or something; the space is cramped, pressing them tightly together. Neither finds this objectionable.

The lack of light poses something of a problem, though. 

“Goddamn it.”

“It’s a front clasp, Sameen.”

“Oh.”

“Serves you right for making fun of me.”

“Like you don’t do the exact same thing.”

“Let’s not point fingers, sweetie.”

“I was planning on doing something else with my fingers.”

“Oh! Yes, please.”

“Move your leg. Goddamn it, not there!”

“Sorry. I can kiss it better, if you want.”

“Shut up. You’re distracting me.”

“Just trying to make conversation.”

“This normally the kind of place you make conversation?”

“I don’t know. This wasn’t exactly my high school experience.”

“Not mine either. Spent most of my time in detention. Shift back a bit, so I can - there, how’s that?”

“Amazing. As always.”

“Good. Now shut up and take my clothes off.”

“Yes ma’am.”

***

“So what was your high school experience like?”

Root’s head lays in Shaw’s lap, her arms snaked around one of the doctor’s legs, her own legs curled up beside her on the couch. A movie plays on the screen; some foreign-language film about war. Root’s not really paying attention. They’d returned from the pseudo-gala with hair and attire rather disheveled, and had quickly changed to something more comfortable. Shaw wears a loose-fitting pair of sweat pants and a tank top, her hair pulled back. Root thinks she’s probably never seen anything so beautiful. She had also felt compelled to say so, which had been met with a snort. Shaw knows she means it, though. That’s just her usual defense against affection.

Root herself had opted for a t-shirt and shorts of Shaw’s. She has plenty of her own clothes around the apartment, of course, but she likes wearing Shaw’s. 

“Trying not to be noticed, mostly,” she answers. “Staying under the radar.”

“I can’t imagine you ever being timid.” One of Shaw’s hands gently rolls through Root’s hair over and over. Root wonders if Shaw’s even aware that she’s doing it.

“I spent most of my life being scared. Or… running.”

“Are you still scared?”

“Yes. I’m scared of what Samaritan’s planning. And what happens if I can’t stop it.” She pulls herself up to look at Shaw. “What about you? Are you scared?”

“Scared’s not really my thing.”

“I know,” Root puts her arms around Shaw’s neck, laying her head on the doctor’s shoulder. The movie plays on, unheeded by either of them. “I used to be more reckless. It’s how I got around the fear, like if I was always ready to die, I couldn’t be afraid of it. It’s harder now, though. Now that people I love are in danger.” Shaw doesn’t respond, but Root can feel her tense slightly. “You don’t have to say it back,” she adds, pulling her arms tighter. “I just like telling you.”

“I care about you,” Shaw says, her head turned away. “I know you want more than that, but that’s what I’ve got.”

“Sameen,” Root pulls herself up until her face is level with Shaw’s. So beautiful, so brilliant, but sometimes _so_ incredibly dense. “When I first met you, I thought you were the sexiest woman I’d ever seen. But I didn’t fall in love with you until I got to know you.”

Shaw’s eyes flick away from Root’s. “What’s your point?”

“My point,” Root says, laying her head against Shaw’s chest, resting just under her chin. “Is that I love you for exactly who you are.” She takes one of Shaw’s hands in hers. “And I have everything I could ever want.”

Shaw doesn’t say anything for a while. Then she clears her throat somewhat noisily, and says, “So how do you get around the fear now?”

Root smiles. “I don’t. I just stopped running. But it can’t stop me now, either.”

A soldier on screen bellows a war cry. Muskets fire and smoke obscures the battlefield.

“Whatever Samaritan’s up to,” Shaw says abruptly, “We’ll figure it out. And anyway, I’ll kill anyone who touches you.”

“Really?” Root teases. “Because I remember someone doing quite a lot of touching earlier tonight.”

“Fine, anyone other than me.”

“Good. I like it when you touch me.”

“In that case…” Shaw slips one of her hands beneath Root’s borrowed shorts.

***

Root’s on the roof again. A vague emptiness swirls around the edges of her vision, but in the way of dreams, this does not seem unusual to her.

The man is standing before her, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Again with the preternatural awareness of the dreamer, she knows that he has been waiting for her.

“I’ve thought about it,” He says, voice wavering slightly. “And I’m going to say no. No offense, I mean, the offer’s great and everything, but it’s just not for me. You understand, right? No big deal. Anyway, I —“

Root silences him by placing a finger to his lips. She slowly walks around him, trailing her hand along his face, feeling the muscles under his skin twitching frantically. “We understand,” She purrs, now standing behind him. With a sudden jerk, her hand buried in his hair, she pulls him toward her, holding his head up, exposing his neck as her knife lays it open.

She continues holding him until his struggling, gurgling breaths stop, then releases him, stepping back swiftly to avoid getting blood on her clothes. The knife she discards unceremoniously over the edge of the roof, where it plummets to a dumpster below, which will have been emptied some time before the police arrive on the scene. 

Root looks towards the door leading to the stairwell, and checks her watch.

The burner should be here soon.

***

Root jerks awake, heart pulsing rapidly, the sound a loud, muffled thud in her ears. She knows, somehow, that her dream wasn’t a dream, but a memory.

She killed the man when he refused to join Samaritan. Then had him burned beyond recognition to throw herself off her own trail.

What has Samaritan done to her? And how? How long has she unwittingly been a double agent, skulking through the night, murdering innocents at the odious god’s behest?

A sudden chill hits her. The blood stolen from Shaw’s freezer. Had that been her, too? Is she putting Shaw in danger just by being here?

Her head starts to feel murky. Like something trying to push her out. She doubles over in the bed, head buried between her knees, trying to block it out, but the pressure continues to build. What the hell is this? Where is her god when she needs Her? 

The pressure is too great. Root blacks out.

***

The Samaritan agent is asleep. Dressed only in a tank top, she lays sprawled out haphazardly across the bed. Root has her gun leveled, but for some reason finds herself unable to fire. Perhaps it’s simply that it seems unsportsmanlike to execute someone in their sleep. Still, it has to be done. She tightens her grip on her gun.

She still can’t fire. Somewhat disconnectedly, she notes that her hand is shaking. 

The agent stirs, eyes blinking open, fixing their dark gaze on Root, filled with confusion. “Root?”

A sudden, ripping pain in her head. Root stumbles back, away from the bed, her back colliding with the wall, where she sinks down, fingers still clutching her gun in a death-grip. She knows the voice. She knows the face, and cold horror floods her; the knowledge that she had very nearly murdered the woman she loves. Still, in her mind, she fights with the urge. Where before Samaritan’s touch had been a needle, or a razor, it becomes a mallet, bludgeoning her, seeking to overcome her will, force her to raise the gun again and fire at Shaw. Her entire body shaking, tears running streaks down her face, Root resists.

Perhaps, with the gift of Samaritan’s healing, she’d forgotten what pain was really like. Now, she’s reminded in full force, every part of her throbbing, every whispering voice promising an end to the agony, if she just gives in. 

Shaw crouches down in front of her, her eyes wide. “Root, what’s happening?” She sounds agitated. Or maybe worried. Root’s never heard her be worried before. She decides that she doesn’t like it.

“I killed the man on the roof,” Root grinds out, in between heavy breaths; the struggle of holding back the weight against her mind exhausting her. “Samaritan. It’s… in my head somehow. I can’t keep it under control for long, Sameen.”

Shaw paces back and forth in front of the bed, agitated. “Goddamn it,” She says, stopping and turning to Root. “It’s the blood.”

“What?”

“That _fucking_ Samaritan agent’s blood I injected you with. That’s what made you go all Stepford wife.”

“Wife?” Root manages a strained smile. “Are you proposing?”

“Fuck you.” Shaw resumes pacing. “That’s why all the Samaritan agents can heal. That’s why all those people join; they get injected and then Samaritan runs their minds.” Shaw kicks the garbage can sitting near the doorway, and it clangs as it ricochets down the hallway.

Root feels a cold chill run through her. “So the Samaritan agents I killed… they didn’t have a choice.” People never really change, and supposing otherwise is nothing more than willful self-delusion. Root has only ever been a killer, and it seems that’s all she’s ever going to be. Stupid, really, to imagine otherwise. To think that she could ever atone for what she’d done, and, even more pathetically, that even her attempts at redemption were anything more than selfishness. Killing yet more innocents, just to make herself feel better. 

“You couldn’t know,” Shaw is saying, but Root’s not listening. The pressure in her head is growing; she knows, soon, Samaritan will have control over her again.

She looks at Shaw. She’d never meant to fall in love, but here she is. That, at least, is one thing she knows for sure has changed.

And that gives her the strength to do what she knows she has to do. She can’t risk Shaw’s life. 

Slowly, hand shaking, feeling her own muscles resist her but still pressing on, she raises the gun to her own head.

And then blackness.

***

Root slowly becomes aware of herself, her mind muddled. Where is she? She opens her eyes.

Well, she tries to. Only one responds. With an effort, she forces the other one to open as well.

Then she tries to move her limbs, and notices that they are bound. She’s laying down, arms laid back behind her head, tied at the wrists. Her ankles are bound as well. And she’s on Shaw’s bed.

Not a particularly unusual position to find herself in. Usually she’s not unconscious, though. Where would be the fun in that? 

Vaguely, she remembers pointing a gun at her own head and trying to pull the trigger. Is she dead now? Maybe her heaven is to be tied up in Shaw’s bed for eternity. Not bad, as far as ways to spend forever go.

She looks up and sees Shaw standing at the foot of the bed.

Not heaven, then. If it were, Shaw wouldn’t have any clothes on.

“What’s going on?” 

That’s what Root tries to say, but her mouth and tongue are strangely lethargic and it just comes out as an incomprehensible mumble. She frowns, focuses, and slowly pushes the words out.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Shaw’s voice is low, her eyebrows pulled together and drawn down, shadowing her eyes. 

“Well,” Root begins a snarky comment, but loses track of it almost immediately. She frowns. “Am I drugged?”

“Yeah.” Shaw sits down on the end of the bed, facing away from Root. “I thought it would be harder for Samaritan to control you if you were sedated.”

“That’s very clever.” Or least Root thinks it’s probably clever. Thinking is actually pretty hard right now, so she chooses to fall back on her default position of assuming everything Shaw says is right.

“I know. So next time, let’s talk it through before you try to blow your head off.”

“ _You_ want to talk?” Root’s starting to get some of her quipping ability back, at least.

Shaw groans. “I should’ve given you a higher dose.”

“Well, we need to do something,” Root says. “As much as I like being tied up at your mercy, this doesn’t seem like a permanent solution.”

“I know!” Shaw’s head sinks down between her knees, her voice muffled. “I’m thinking, all right?”

“Better think fast,” Root says, trying to shift into a more comfortable position and finding her limbs’ response to be somewhat lackluster. “Samaritan’s definitely going to notice I’m not under its control, which means we’ll probably have some visitors soon.”

Shaw lets out a sound that sounds something like a growl, then turns to look back at Root. “How many guns do we have in the fridge?”

***

“Sameen, I’m not going to let you do this.” Root’s head, while still murky, is beginning to clear. Her convictions, returning. She can’t let Shaw die. And she can’t become one of Samaritan’s instruments again, can’t let it make her a killer all over again.

Shaw, pulling cases of ammunition from under the bed and laying them alongside the numerous weapons now spread across the floor of her bedroom, doesn’t look up. “Yeah well, I think you’re too tied up right now to stop me.”

“Shaw,” Root says, in a tone that catches the doctor’s attention. “You can’t stop them all. And even if you could, Samaritan will get control again anyway. You have to let me go.”

“No.” Shaw resumes loading the arsenal on her floor.

“Please,” Root says, her voice cracking. “I can’t go back to being… what Samaritan made me. And I can’t let you die because of me. I can’t live without you, so please, let me go.”

“Maybe I feel the same way.” Shaw says, not looking at Root. Then she stands and faces the bed, holding the Beretta Root had given her months ago. “If we can’t win, I’ll shoot us both, all right?”

“Be a hell of a way to go out,” Root manages a weak smile. 

Shaw clears her throat, and looks back at the weaponry. “You’re still probably too loopy to shoot straight, but you can reload for me when I’m out.” She reaches for the restraints at Root’s wrist, then hesitates. “If I untie your arms, are you going to try and strangle me?”

“Only if you want me to.”

A thud from outside Shaw’s apartment reaches them. The doctor’s head whips around, looking towards the bedroom door. She turns back, quickly unties Root’s wrists, and tosses a few boxes of spare ammunition beside her on the bed. Shaw stands up and raises her gun, as more persistent sounds of banging reach them.

“Nice view,” Root says, looking at Shaw, and realizing that the doctor had neglected to put her pants back on. “We should do all our shootouts like this.” Shaw doesn’t turn around, but Root thinks she sees the hint of a smile. Now she just needs to focus on helping Shaw. Reloading her weapons as quickly as possible. Not the expanse of skin just a few feet from her, or the taut muscles underneath, or the faint sheen of sweat, or…

Fuck. Root begrudgingly admits that pantsless shootouts are a bad idea. She’d never be able to concentrate.

Another crash, from the front door, then the sound of careful steps through the apartment.

They pause on the other side of the bedroom doorway. Shaw’s hands do not shake.

A voice from the other side. “Root?”

Sudden relief floods Root. She knows that voice. “Don’t shoot, Sameen. He’s a friend.” She grabs the edge of Shaw’s tank top and pulls her back. “Come in, John!” She adds, more loudly.

A tall, dark haired man steps through the door, somewhat warily, his own gun held low, pointing down. Shaw’s doesn’t lower her weapon, although she does give him something of an appreciative twice-over. If Root weren’t sure that Shaw was madly in love with her, she might be somewhat jealous. “Drop it.” Shaw says.

“Sameen, we can trust him.” Root says. She supposes she must still be feeling the effects of the drugs Shaw had given her, since so far she’s treated the return of a man she’d thought dead for a year with remarkable equanimity.

“I’ve already had one person try to shoot me today.” Shaw replies. “And I’ve got trust issues. Drop it.”

The man slowly bends down and places his gun on the floor, then steps back as Shaw moves forward to pick it up. As she moves back to the bed, gun trained on him the entire time, the man seems to take in the scene before him for the first time; his eyes travel up and down Shaw’s bare legs, and then over to Root, whose ankles are tied to the edge of the bed. “Am I interrupting something?”

“I can still shoot you.” Shaw says flatly.

“Don’t mind Shaw,” Root says, rolling her eyes. “She takes a while to warm up, but she’s really a sweetheart.” This comment earns Root a death glare from Shaw. “Anyway,” she continues. “I heard you were dead.”

Reese shrugs. “It didn’t take.” 

“So how’d you find me?”

He smiles. “A mutual friend let me know you were in town.”

A sudden rush of awareness surges through Root, all her senses becoming inhumanly sharp. She can hear her own rapid heartbeat, as well as those of Reese and Shaw. Her mind opens up, as if she had previously been in a dark room and was suddenly plunged into light. Her eyes register every minute movement across her field of vision. She directs this new clarity towards a re-examination of Shaw’s behind, and is enormously pleased with the results.

_Should I come back later?_

A voice and a presence in her mind that she’s been without for far too long. She laughs out loud, and narrowly avoids bursting into tears.

_I apologize for my extended absence. There were, however, matters that required my attention._

“You don’t have to apologize,” Root says, smiling. “Although, don’t think you’re off the hook for not telling me John was still alive.”

Shaw is looking at Root with an eyebrow raised. Root had told her about her god before, of course, but she’s never actually seen them communicate. She supposes it must be rather odd from the perspective of an onlooker, privy to only one half of the conversation. Or maybe Root just looks funny. She frowns. She needs to find a mirror so she can check. But she can’t be obvious about it.

_I was unaware of Mr. Reese’s survival up until recently myself,_ the voice in her head replies. _I do not know that he has a similar excuse for prolonging our ignorance._

“Not to rush this reunion,” Reese says. “But Samaritan has agents on the way. We need to go.”

“Speaking of Samaritan…” Root begins, her voice more subdued.

_Yes, I had noticed its presence within you._

“Can you get rid of it?”

_I am sorry. I do not believe that I can, at least not without permanently harming you._

Root’s heart sinks. She hadn’t really expected otherwise, but having that little bit of hope had been nice. Oh well. She’s been hopeless before and still kept going; she’s hardly going to give up now. “Where are we going?” She asks Reese.

“A safe house. We can discuss strategy once we’re there, but now we need to move.”

“Sameen,” Root says, turning to Shaw. “You’ll need to knock me out again, otherwise Samaritan will be able to see where we’re going.” She’s not entirely sure if this is true, but Shaw’s life is something she can’t afford to risk.

The doctor nods, pulls a syringe from…. somewhere, and lowers it to Root’s arm. She looks up and meets Root’s eyes, her expression impossible to read. “I’ll be there when you wake up.” Then Root feels a prick in her arm, and then everything goes black.

***

Root falls back onto the bed, and Shaw bends down to untie her legs. “Instead of staring at my ass, why don’t you make yourself useful and grab some of those guns?” She says to Reese, not looking back. He doesn’t respond, but she hears him doing as she said.

She pulls open a drawer beside the bed, and quickly secures a pair of pants and tugs them on. She grabs her jacket from a corner of the room, and turns back to the bed, grabbing Root by the legs, pulling the woman’s unconscious form over her shoulders. Locking her right arm over Root’s knees, she makes her way to the bedroom door, grunting with the exertion. Thin as she is, the agent is surprisingly heavy, like she’s smuggling some valuable goods inside her body.

Which would not be out of the question for her, Shaw imagines.

“Want some help?” Reese inquires, watching Shaw’s slow progress to the door. He produces a duffel bag from somewhere, and piles in as many guns as will fit.

“No.” Shaw says flatly, picking up her pace. John says nothing else, and follows her out of the apartment, down the stairs, across a hallway, and into the private garage where she stores her car. Black, sleek, polished to perfection, it is a work of art. She sees John giving it a look of appreciation.

She decides she sort of likes him.

Shaw places Root in the backseat as gently as she can manage, which isn’t particularly gentle, but she doesn’t think there will be any permanent damage, at least.

“So what’s your superpower?” She asks, getting in behind the wheel as Reese opens the passenger side door, laying the duffel bag on the floor in the back. “Super strength? Can you fly? Shoot lasers from your eyes?”

“I’m really good at parties.”

***

Root wakes up lying on a couch. Shaw is seated in a chair across from her, and a turn of her head reveals John standing behind her. A glance around the room reveals they’re in some sort of apartment, fairly upscale, although sparse and somewhat sterile, like a model home. Or maybe it’s just John’s apartment, this is his sort of style. Shaw’s too, actually. Her apartment had been dreadfully bland until Root moved in and spiced it up. “No need to look so grim, you guys,” she says, pulling herself into a sitting position. “You’d think we were about to fight for our lives or something.”

Shaw rolls her eyes. 

“We need to talk about Samaritan,” Reese says.

“Still all business, John?” Root says with a mock scowl. “I thought I’d gotten you to lighten up a bit.” She flicks her eyes over to Shaw, who raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t give any other reaction. “Fine, then,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “Let’s talk business.”

“What’s happening with the thing in your head?” Shaw asks.

“Which one?” Shaw glares, so Root adds, “Stuck. Can’t get rid of it, at least for now.”

“Can it hurt you?”

“I don’t think so. Not while She’s here with me.”

“Keeping two gods in your head for the rest of your life sounds like a bad long-term plan.” Reese remarks.

“Since Samaritan wants all of us dead, ‘long term’ probably isn’t something we need to worry about right now. “ Root replies.

“So what’s your plan?” Shaw asks. “Just sit around and wait for them to find us, or for the thing in your head to make you go psycho again?”

“So what do you suggest, Sameen?”

Shaw shoots her another glare, and John cuts in. “I know where they’re going to be.”

Root turns to him. “Where? And how do you know?”

He shrugs. “Warehouse outside of town. Call it a hunch. I’ll send you the location.”

“Well, I’m convinced,” Shaw mutters sarcastically. “So we find Samaritan’s agents. What then?”

Root and Reese glance at each other, and Reese says, “Greer.”

“Samaritan’s top man,” Root adds. “If we can’t stop Samaritan, we can at least cripple it. Without Greer, it loses its main asset.”

“So what about all the super-powered, brainwashed agents?” Shaw asks skeptically.

“Well, that’s old news for us, isn’t it, John?” She looks over at Shaw. “And we’ve handled our fair share too, sweetie.”

“So basically,” Shaw says. “We’re just going to head out there and hope we don’t get murdered.”

“We usually don’t.” Reese says. 

Shaw rolls her eyes. “Not to derail this brilliant plan, but isn’t taking on Greer what nearly got you killed last time?”

“I’ve got an advantage now, remember?” 

“Doesn’t really help the rest of us,” Shaw mutters. “So what does this Greer guy do? What kind of power levels are we talking here?”

Root gives an exaggerated shrug. “Afraid we’re in the dark on this one, sweetie.”

“Not anymore,” John says. At looks from Shaw and Root, he adds, “I didn’t spend this last year just sitting around. I kept busy.”

“I figured you must have been pretty busy,” Root says lightly. “Since you didn’t even have enough time to let me know you weren’t dead.”

John is quiet for a few moments. Shaw raises her eyebrows.

“…Sorry.” He finally says.

“There, was that so hard?” Root asks. John blinks a few times and doesn’t respond. In her mind, Root heaves a dramatic sigh. What is it about her that so attracts emotionally constipated individuals? Between Reese and Shaw she’s starting to feel like the only adult in a group of sullen children.

“So what about this intel?” Shaw interrupts Root’s internal monologue. 

“We can’t discuss tactics while I’m here,” Root says, and taps the side of her head. “We’ve got eavesdroppers.”

Shaw looks at Root, across to Reese, and then back again. “Great, the only one of us with useful powers can’t even hear the plan. How are you two still alive?”

Root smiles. “So are you in?

Shaw rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

“I’ll go load up the car.” Reese grabs a few firearms that are laying around, and exits the apartment through a steel-reinforced door. Probably trying to get away before Root takes him to task again for not trying to make contact.

Root pats the seat beside her. “Come sit with me, Sameen.”

Shaw sighs, stands, walks over and flops down next to Root, who grabs Shaw’s hand with her own and twines their fingers together. “I’m sorry I got you into all this,” she says.

“I’m not,” Shaw replies. “This is the most fun I’ve had in ages.”

Root smiles. “Might not be any more of that, if we win today.”

“I wasn’t just talking about Samaritan.”

Root squeezes Shaw’s hand. “I love you too, sweetie.” Noticing that she’s still dressed in Shaw’s shirt and shorts, she adds, “Did you bring me any clothes? I don’t know if Samaritan would appreciate,” she looks down at the logo on the shirt. “‘The Dillinger Escape Plan’ quite as much as you do.”

Shaw stands and retrieves a pile of clothes from across the room, and chunks them at Root as she sits back down. 

“Thank you,” Root says sweetly, and stands up. Shirt comes off first, as she faces Shaw, and watches her eyes travel Root’s body. Nothing she hasn’t seen before, but that doesn’t seem to deter her from looking. Then Root turns around, bending down to take off the shorts. Then another turn to face Shaw again, completing the effect, and she pulls the new clothes on.

Tonight’s going to be so much fun. So long as they don’t get murdered before then. Root sits back down.

“Why didn’t the blood affect me like it did you?” Shaw asks. “I injected myself too.”

“I’m not sure,” Root replies. “Maybe because you don’t already have a power, like me, or the Samaritan agents. Or maybe it just wasn’t after you.” Shaw frowns, and Root adds, “Poor taste on its part.”

Shaw rolls her eyes. “I’m fine with it.” Abruptly she adds, “I think you’re a good person.” 

“What?”

“You asked me, a while ago. Other people always make ‘good’ about their feelings.” She snorts. “That’s why I was a bad doctor, no matter how many people I saved. I didn’t _feel_ enough. As if uselessly feeling bad about things is a mark of virtue.” She looks up into Root’s eyes and holds her gaze there. “Good is what you do. You help people. You risk your life for them. You’re a good person.”

“Thank you,” Root says quietly. “And, for the record, Sameen,” she looks over at Shaw until she turns her head and their eyes meet. “You’re an amazing doctor.”

“Suck up.” Shaw mutters, lowering her head to hide her smile.

Reese reenters the room. “Ready whenever you are.”

Root stands up, and walks over to a window, looking down at the street below, and sees a black car pulling out onto the road. After a moment, she turns around. “You know,” she says, walking towards Shaw until they’re just inches apart, and Shaw has to tilt her head up to maintain eye contact. “It’s possible one of us could die today. Or all of us.” She runs a hand across Shaw’s cheek gently.

“If you’re trying to give us a pep talk you’re doing a lousy job.” Shaw mutters.

“I’m just saying,” she puts her arms around Shaw, hands resting on her back. “In case we don’t make it…” She pulls Shaw closer and into a kiss, which the doctor seems disinclined to break. Root’s hands travel down Shaw’s back, and further down.

“Should I give you two a minute?” Reese asks.

Root’s hands roam around Shaw’s upper legs, one finding its way between them, the other stopping halfway and slipping into one of her pockets. “Root,” Shaw growls.

“What?” Root asks innocently, withdrawing both hands and stepping back, swinging Shaw’s keyring around one finger.

“I’m driving. I’m not letting you anywhere near the wheel. I’ve seen how you treat your car.”

“Unfortunately, Sameen,” Root says, lightly tossing the keys, and then snatching them out of the air. “There’s been a change of plans. I’m going after Samaritan alone.”

“Not happening,” Shaw says flatly. 

“Sorry, Sameen,” Root says. “It already did.”

And Root Pushes.

***

Root strolls out of the now-empty apartment, locking the door behind her so that Reese and Shaw won’t be suspicious when they arrive with her unconscious past self. She exits the building, crosses the street, and crouches behind the rising stairway of the building beside her.

After a few minutes, Shaw’s car appears, and the doctor gets out, opens the back door, and carries an unconscious Root up to the building, Reese holding the door open ahead of her.

More waiting. Then Reese comes down, bearing the duffel bag full of weapons. He stows them in the trunk of the car, and then walks back inside the apartment complex. Root darts over, unlocks the car with the keys in her pocket, and gets inside. Dr. Shaw has been adamant that Root not drive the vehicle, but she’s just being silly. Most of the damage done to Root’s car she does herself just so she can see Shaw in her mechanic’s coveralls. The car will be perfectly safe in her care. She starts it up, pulls out onto the road, pausing briefly to wave at her past self in the window, letting her know it’s time.

Reese and Shaw won’t be deterred from joining the fight, she’s sure. Shaw is like a freight train; impossible to stop unless she stops herself. But with Samaritan in Root’s head, every thing she hears, Samaritan could potentially hear and relay to its agents, so the less she knows about Reese and Shaw’s plans, the safer they’ll be.

***

“I’m going to kill her.” Shaw says darkly, looking at the empty space where her car used to be.

“Might be hard,” Reese replies. “She took the guns. Besides, I think she’s just trying to avoid Samaritan finding out what we’re doing.”

“I know _that_ ,” Shaw says. “But she took my damn car!”

“You got insurance on it?”

Shaw looks over at Reese, who’s studiously staring forward, out across the road. Apparently he’s decided to develop a sense of humor.

Shaw kicks at the ground. “So about this Greer guy. What did you find out?”

“He can heal.” John sets off down the sidewalk, and Shaw follows. Presumably they’re heading towards the warehouse, although she’s not sure how much good it will do them to arrive hours after Root, who by that point will have probably figured out some way to overcome her healing abilities and get herself killed. And they still don’t have any weapons.

“They can all do that,” Shaw responds. “I’ve seen it.”

“Samaritan gives them the healing ability,” John says. “But they all have a power they started with. Greer’s base power is also healing.”

“So… what?” Shaw tries to work through the implications. “What does that mean? He just heals _really_ well?”

“Yeah. Also means you can empty a whole cartridge into him and he won’t even break a sweat. That’s how me and Root got separated the first time. Underestimated him. Thought we could take him.”

“How about a sedative? Seems to knock out the other agents just fine. For a while, anyway.”

John turns to her. “Worth a try. You have any on you?”

Shaw holds open her jacket, revealing a wealth of syringes strapped on the inside. “Never leave the apartment without ‘em.”

John gives a nod of approval. “I can see why Root likes you.” They cross a street, back onto the sidewalk, and continue on. “How’d you two end up together, anyway?”

“She showed up out of nowhere and I couldn’t get her to leave.” Shaw grunts. “You?”

“Same sort of thing,” Reese replies. “I broke her out of an asylum and she just stuck around after that.” They turn another corner, and make their way through the bustle of people surrounding some sort of pseudo farmers market set up on the sidewalk. A girl with a bright smile approaches them as they pass, but a look from Shaw stops her in her tracks. They continue on. “There’s another thing about Samaritan,” John says.

“Yeah?”

“It’s powerful, but not limitlessly powerful. And it’s got a lot of agents to control, and to heal.”

“So we just keep hacking at the agents and letting them heal?” Shaw asks. “Try to wear it out? How long would that take?”

John shrugs. “Maybe we at least distract it enough to weaken Greer. Give Root a chance.”

“Good thing she’s in the loop on this,” Shaw says. “Might be tough to pull off otherwise.”

John doesn’t respond to the sarcasm. Shaw finds herself oddly wistful for the eyeroll that comment would have gotten her from Root.

“Found our ride.” John says suddenly, and Shaw turns to see where he’s looking.

Root’s old, battered, beige-and-rust-colored car sits parked beside the curb. The keys lay in the driver’s seat. The doors are unlocked.

“No.” Shaw says flatly.

“It’s not that far.” John replies.

“ _No_.” Shaw repeats. “Can’t we just steal one?”

“We’re supposed to be good guys, remember?”

“ _You_ are. I’m just a sociopath dating a psychopath with a death wish.”

“I think the fact that we’re following her means we have death wishes, too.”

“Fine so we’re all fucked in the head. I’m not driving that car.” Shaw crosses her arms.

“I’ll drive,” John says placatingly. “You can ride shotgun.”

After a moment, Shaw groans, “Fine.”

***

Root parks Dr. Shaw’s car behind a stand of trees and walks the hundred yards or so across an empty dirt lot to the warehouse. Shaw wouldn’t appreciate her vehicle getting in the middle of a firefight, which is what this situation is likely to devolve into, once the usual pleasantries and death threats are out of the way. Or maybe they’ll do the shooting first and get to the threats after, she’s not sure.

Though there is a startling lack of activity as she covers the distance between her and the warehouse. She can feel Samaritan, moving about in her mind, sort of like a pulse except more sinister, and she’s sure it knows where she is. Which means Greer knows too. She’s poised to Push; should a bullet come flying her way, her newly re-amped senses will give her sufficient time to get out of the way. Samaritan probably knows that, too, now that she thinks about it.

So much second guessing. And then second guessing her second guesses.

She reaches the warehouse, opens the door, and steps inside.

“Samantha! We’ve all been waiting for you.” Greer stands alone in the middle of the warehouse, dressed as usual in a dark suit, wearing his characteristic, falsely jovial smile. His voice echoes off the distant walls of the empty, derelict space. Light filters down from windows some fifteen feet above.

“Love what you’ve done with the place.” Root calls, walking towards him.

“May I presume you’ve come to accept Samaritan’s gracious offer?” He holds out his hands genially, like he’s someone’s grandfather, instead of a psychopathic murderer and tool of a dark god.

“What offer?” Root stops a few steps away from him.

“Why, to join us, of course.” 

“And here I was thinking we’d just try to kill each other like usual.”

“Kill you? Hardly. Why ever would we want to do that, after all the trouble we went through to give you your new healing abilities?”

Root considers. He could be telling the truth. These last few months could have all been part of some elaborate scheme on Samaritan’s part to try to turn her. Or Greer could just be lying. It wouldn’t be the first time. She snorts. “You think that’s going to get me to change sides?” In a mocking stage whisper she adds, “My god’s stronger than yours.”

“Ah, of course. Your ‘destiny’ you always talk about. You think you’re ‘chosen.’” Greer chuckles. “Do you know what you really are, Samantha?” When Root doesn’t respond, he continues. “A lonely, crazy girl, desperate for something, anything, to believe in.” Greer smiles. “You imagine yourself to be following a destiny laid out for you, by fate, or god, but the truth of it is, your allegiance to your so called ‘god’ comes down to one thing: timing. If a monk had found you and offered you an escape from the cage you’d built around yourself, you’d have shaved your head and moved to a monastery by now. If a terrorist organization had found you, you’d probably have blown yourself up already. And if Samaritan had found you, well, I suspect you’d be standing right beside me right now. What you call ‘destiny’ is nothing more than random chance.”

“This is your best sales pitch?” Root scoffs, ignoring the sting from his words.

“Think of it as advice from a friend,” Greer says. “And if you don’t heed it, my dear, I’m afraid we’ll have to be much less friendly. Samaritan isn’t taking no for an answer.” As he speaks these words, Root hears motion behind her. A quick glance back shows at least a dozen black-clad Samaritan agents, all armed.

“Sorry,” Root says lightly, turning back to Greer. “I just don’t think it’s a good fit for me. By the way,” she adds, “Thank Samaritan for the healing ability, will you? This might have been difficult otherwise.”

Greer looks past her, near the entrance to the warehouse, where, behind his agents, a handful of Roots have taken position, each armed with a different gun from the bag Dr. Shaw had packed. All those impulse purchases she and Root had made at that gun show are really paying off.

The Samaritan agents turn, and for a moment stand still, and then chaos breaks loose.

The warehouse echoes with shouts and the clamor of guns firing. Root, senses on fire, dodges around several projectiles aimed her way, raising her own weapon to fire on an agent. She’s got to be careful, though, now that she knows they’re all mind controlled. Can’t kill them. Although if she doesn’t do enough damage, with their healing powers they’ll be back up in minutes. So severe but non-fatal is what she needs to do.

Whilst navigating a minefield of bullets, and whatever else these Samaritan agents have up their sleeves. She sees one Root picked up telekinetically and hurled across the building; she vanishes suddenly, Pushing herself away. Other agents spout fire from their hands, and Root is forced to tilt back like she’s playing limbo to avoid a conflagratory blast. As it is, she sees the edges of her hair smoking, the ends singed off.

She fires off more shots, most hitting their marks. One agent drops, but the rest soldier on. She turns, briefly, and sees Greer, still standing where he was before, somehow appearing to have avoided taking any damage. “Looks like that healing trick backfired,” she calls over to him.

“Oh yes, my dear,” he replies easily. “You’ve caught us completely by surprise. Tell me, Samantha, does your god grow weary?”

Root frowns briefly, but is distracted from his words when her enhanced senses warn her of a bullet approaching from behind her. Instead of dodging, she Pushes.

Not too far. But far enough that Greer and Samaritan’s agents won’t be around. Root drops out of her Push, and looks around at the empty warehouse.

Then she strides out, back across the vacant lot, over to the stand of trees, and waits for past Root to pull up in Shaw’s car. Most of the other Roots are already there, a pile of spent weapons growing between them. 

She doesn’t say anything to them. Self dialogues can be a little unnerving at times, despite the inherent pleasure in dealing with someone so intelligent and agreeable. Besides, if one of them had something she needed to know, they’d tell her.

Past Root pulls up and parks, and walks off towards the warehouse, and the gathered Roots file over to the trunk, each pulling a gun from the duffel bag, each gun a temporal clone to one in the pile behind them.

Well, except for one, Root supposes. One of them is the last one. She looks around at the arrayed Roots. Which one is the furthest ahead on her timeline? And why is there no one ahead of her? Does that mean that they win, and no more Roots are needed?

Or does it mean one of them, the one furthest ahead, won’t survive to Push again?

Unsettling thoughts. This is why Root tries never to know too much about the future. Better to know just pieces. The future is a puzzle, and the more pieces you have, the clearer the picture is, the fewer possible branches there are. And if you have all the pieces, if you know exhaustively what the future holds for you, then all you can do is be drawn closer to that inevitability, regardless of how you fight it. Or try to run from it.

But Root’s done running. Side by side with her time-sisters, she walks back into the warehouse, and a few moments later the chaos starts all over again.

She dodges bullets and spurts of flame and hurled objects, dancing around her future (and one past) selves. They appear almost choreographed, and by this point, she supposes most of them have been through this often enough to memorize every move. Her enhanced senses are a fire in her mind, and her hands are blurs as she fires shots around her.

She notices a Samaritan agent in front of her simply collapse, with no apparent wound. A glance towards Greer, still standing in the middle of the room, and she sees that her past self has already made her first Push. She’s into uncharted territory now.

Another agent appears in front of her, and then collapses, clutching at her knees. “One of you was bad enough.” A voice grumbles from behind her. Root pivots, and sees Dr. Shaw, gun in hand, stepping through the chaos.

Root smiles. “You know, I was hoping you might try something a bit more subtle.”

“Subtle? I thought you knew me better than that.” Shaw fires off a few more shots, ducking as Root does the same. “If you scratched my car I’ll kill you.”

“Think you’re going to have to get in line, Sameen,” Root pulls the doctor to the ground as a projectile hurtles past them.

“These guys?” Shaw scoffs, pulling herself to her feet. “I don’t -“

She cuts off suddenly, and Root looks up to see Shaw, expression befuddled, looking at her own chest, where a dark stain is spreading. “Sameen!” Root catches the doctor as she falls forward, knees buckling when she tries to take a step. The fight rages on around her, bullets and shards of glass and gouts of fire, and Root hunches herself protectively over Shaw’s mostly-still form. “Sameen!” She says again, but receives no response from the doctor, whose eyes have closed. She reaches for Shaw’s hand to try and feel a pulse, and then pauses.

If she checks, then reality becomes cemented. The last piece of Shaw’s puzzle put in place. And if she’s dead, Root can’t do anything to change it.

But if she doesn’t know…

Root pushes.

Empty warehouse again.

Back across the dirt lot.

Back among the waiting Roots. She still doesn’t speak.

Her first self arrives again, and her arrayed time-clones make their oft-repeated pilgrimage after her an appropriate amount of time later. Except present Root. She waits.

Until, a few minutes later, she sees a short, dark-haired and dark-clad form dart into the warehouse. Root enters after her.

The beats of the opening volleys are familiar to her now, and she steps around agents and detritus fairly easily, searching for Dr. Shaw. 

She finds her, crouched beside the same Samaritan agent Root had seen collapse earlier. 

“Sameen, I need to -“

“Isn’t there are war you’re supposed to fighting here?”

“Sameen, you’re going to get shot in a few minutes.”

“I know,” Shaw grunts, pulling up one sleeve, and raising her other hand, which holds a syringe, and presses it to the skin. “That’s why I got insurance from this guy.” She gestures at the collapsed man, who bears several needle marks on his own arm. Shaw stands, opening her jacket and showing Root the half-dozen or so red-filled syringes.

“Sameen,” Root says, stepping back to allow a hurled Samaritan agent to fly between her and Shaw, and then stepping back. “You are the most terrifying woman I’ve ever met.”

“Save the sweet talk for tonight.” Shaw says. Root mimes a swoon.

And then is promptly reabsorbed into the battle. Another agent falls down in front of her, with no apparent wounds. She brings up her gun and fires at another, who emits some sort of shockwave, causing the bullet to ricochet towards the roof and Root herself to stumble and fall onto her back. From this position, she sees Shaw take a bullet again, and watches her past self Push away.

Pulling herself to her feet, barely paying attention to the battle raging around her, she watches, and breathes a sigh of relief when Shaw starts to climb to her feet. Back to business, then.

***

Root stands again among the Root gathering. She’s taken the last gun from the duffel. She’s the last Root in the sequence, the one who’s been and will go further into the future than any of the others.

She walks across the lot once more, and into the warehouse, and begins her dance. Even without the raging fire of her god inside her mind, she’d be able to avoid every attack leveled at her, she’s so familiar with the battleground, and the movements of her dopplegängers. She’s precise with her ammunition, firing only at the agents she knows her doubles and Shaw won’t take out. Again, she sees that one Samaritan agent crumple, and this time, out of the corner of her eye, she catches sight of John Reese, syringe of sedative in hand, just pulled from the agent’s shoulder.

Shaw’s idea, clearly. Root’s so proud of her.

Reese can’t turn invisible, not exactly, he just encourages people not to notice him. But once you know he’s there, he’s easier to spot, and Root sees him stepping lightly through the battlefield, injecting agents who then collapse, and are syringed again by Dr. Shaw, pulling more blood.

They’re a good team, Root thinks. If she dies, hopefully John will stick around. He and Shaw will get along nicely.

Not that she’s planning on dying. But it’s good to know her doctor will be in good hands if she does.

Samaritan agents drop all around her. As the battle progresses, her time-clones begin to disappear.

She walks over to Greer, still standing in the middle of the room, observing the battle around him like a mildly interesting game of golf. “How long do you intend to play this little game, Samantha?”

“Just as long as you.”

“By all means,” Greer says. “Feel free.”

Root prepares a sharp retort, but suddenly finds her mind blank. She frowns.

“I see you brought the lovely Dr. Shaw along,” Greer observes conversationally. “Tell me, Samantha, how do you imagine it will feel, knowing you were responsible for getting her killed?”

Root looks around, still feeling confused, and sees Shaw beside her. All the Samaritan agents are prone on the ground. All the Roots have vanished.

There’s a sharp crack, and Root whips back around to see Greer, looking at Shaw with an amused expression, seemingly unaffected by the bullet she’d just sent through his torso. Shaw shrugs. “Worth a shot.”

Reese, having made his way over to Greer, draws out another syringe and jabs it in the side of the man’s neck. Greer turns, unaffected and unhurried, plucks the syringe out, and tosses it away. “Ah, Mr. Reese!” He exclaims, as if genuinely pleased. “You’re a hard man to find, and apparently an even harder one to kill.” With this, he casually shoots John and then turns back to Root. 

Shaw darts over to Reese, who’s struggling not to fall over. She keeps her gun trained on Greer, for all the good it would do, but he doesn’t even seem to notice her. Root finds her feet unresponsive, like someone cemented her to this spot when she wasn’t paying attention. 

“Are you all right, Samantha?” Greer smirks. “No more clever barbs?”

Of their own accord, Root hands, gripping her gun, raise up, leveling themselves in Shaw’s direction, where the doctor is crouched over Reese’s collapsed form. She grits her teeth and tries to force her arms to lower.

“There’s an important lesson to be learned from all this, my dear.” Greer walks over to stand beside her, watching casually as her body shakes, trying to regain control. “You’re not nearly so clever as you imagine yourself to be. Did you imagine you could pull on Her power forever?” He chuckles. “You’re killing your god, Samantha, one little Push at a time. And now She’s not strong enough to stop Samaritan.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Root sees some of the Samaritan agents on the ground beginning to stir. Her legs give a violent shake, and her knees buckle, bringing her to the ground with a painful thump. Her arms drag themselves inexorably up again.

She could probably force another Push. But what good would that do? When she came out of it, her god would be that much weaker, and Samaritan would close its hold on her once again. She could turn the gun on herself, like she tried to last time, but she can’t even get her body to cooperate.

“You said,” Root manages to force out, in a strained whisper. “You couldn’t force Samaritan to let go of me. But,” she fights through another wave of tremors. “Could you stop it from letting go?”

“What’s that, my dear? Speak up, please. I’m not as young as I once was, you know.”

Root ignores him; listens instead to the quiet voice inside her head.

_Yes, I believe so. Are you sure?_

When she’d been in the asylum, she’d known only anger and fear. On many occasions she might have been willing to die, but it had been more of a pervading sense of nihilism than any sort of sacrifice.

But now….

Now she doesn’t let her fear control her. Now she’ll do whatever she has to for the people she loves. For Sameen, and for John.

For her friends.

“I’m sure,” she whispers.

And Root Pushes.

***

She Pushes harder than she’s ever Pushed before, drawing on her god’s power to propel her further. The Push wreaks havoc on her, she can feel the sensation of burning inside her head, but as soon as it comes it’s abated, healing power drawn from an unwilling source in ever greater quantities.

She refuses to relent, as all three of them rocket towards oblivion. Her god, being drained by her Push, holds Samaritan inside her mind, even as her body tears from Samaritan all it needs to hold itself together.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, hoping the sound will travel in whatever not-quite-place she exists in when she’s Pushing. “I didn’t ask if this was what you wanted.”

_You didn’t need to ask._

As her Push increase in magnitude, the damage done to her body accelerates, and she draws ever more power from Samaritan to repair what’s being done. She feels like she’s about to be torn apart, the combined force of two dying gods raging inside her.

And then…

Nothing.

Plunged into darkness. All awareness fading. Her hypersensitivities vanish.

There are no voices in her head now.

Not even one.

Root closes her eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two: God is Dead

Dr. Shaw manages to remove the bullet from Reese’s body and staunch the blood. Whatever stalemate that had been going on with Root, Greer, and Samaritan had stopped when Root had vanished into nothingness a few minutes ago. Shaw wasn’t sure if that meant she’d won, or if she’d just fucking killed herself, but she’d quickly drawn her gun and shot Greer anyway. The man went down, which Shaw decides is a good sign. Samaritan’s either gone, or too tied up in whatever the hell Root’s doing to keep up its healing.

Reese had apparently been right about Greer’s underlying ability, though, as he’d soon started to get up, so Shaw shot him a few more times for good measure, and took his gun before returning to work on John.

She realizes she can probably use a sedative on him now, and proceeds to do so. Greer goes slack, either because the sedative worked, or because he’s trying to make her think it did. She’ll keep an eye on him.

She returns the syringe to the inside of her jacket, among its fellows, mostly filled with Samaritan agents’ blood. Shaw has to admit to feeling a fairly significant level of pride over the battle tactic she’d developed. She’s fairly sure this is the first instance of someone weaponizing universal recipiency. 

A groan catches her attention. One of the aforementioned Samaritan agents, clutching a gunshot wound in his side. “What is this?” He moans. “Where am I?”

Oh fuck. Brainwashing is gone. So’s the healing, apparently. Now she’s got a warehouse full of confused, bullet-wounded people.

She wishes she were back in her morgue. She groans and rushes over to the man, whipping out her phone and dialing the hospital at the same time.

***

“You know, for someone who claims to only want to work with dead people, you seem to do an awful lot of doctoring.”

Shaw grimaces, as she and Detective Carter watch ambulances pull away from the warehouse, full of quickly-bandaged former agents, John Reese somewhere among them. Greer had been handcuffed and taken by the police, although it’s unlikely they’ll find any solid evidence connecting him to the killings of the last year or so. Either way, now he’s just an old man who’s really tough to kill. “Not really how I wanted to spend my day,” she says to Carter. “Just came along for the ride.”

“Rough ride.” Carter remarks. “Anyway, I think ‘mass brainwashing’ is going to be kind of a tough sell for some people upstairs, so it’s probably better if we keep that part quiet for now.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Shaw grunts. “You know I never talk to anyone.”

“You can go now, if you want,” Carter says. “I’ve got this.”

Shaw nods, and makes her way back to where she’d seen her car, behind some trees across the lot.

There’s someone sitting, legs crossed, on the hood of her car.

“Hey, sweetie.”

***

Part Three: Repeated Roots

6:50 AM (two months before apotheosis)

 

Root awakes to nearly blinding pain. Her head feels like it was put into a hydraulic press. She opens her eyes and the light that comes in feels like spears through her eye sockets. Where is she? Her Push is the last thing she remembers.

Is she dead? She wonders how many times in her life she’s going to ask herself that question.

“I work in the morgue because I like it there.”

Root turns her head to find the source of the voice, her vision still not resolving into anything distinct. “Sameen?” She croaks out in a voice that sounds like a rusty door hinge.

“You don’t have to keep injuring yourself just to get me working with live patients again. I like where I am.”

“Not trying to…” Root trails off, and finally manages to make out Dr. Shaw’s frowning face. Just as beautiful as ever. Tired, though. Dark circles under her eyes. “You saved me.”

“Yeah,” Shaw says, face expressionless. “I’m a goddamn doctor.”

***

(one month before apotheosis)

 

“Technically,” Root says, lounging on the bed, watching Shaw tug her pants back on, and then hunt around the room for her socks. “I think this means you’re cheating on me.”

“You’ve been using this time travel stuff to get a leg up on me for ages,” Shaw says, sitting down at the end of the bed and pulling her socks on. “It’s about time I got something out of it.”

“Do you have to go already?” Root wheedles.

“I’ve got a conference, remember?”

“Oh,” Root frowns. “I just thought you made those up. Because you wanted to come see me.”

Shaw snorts. “You wish. Anyway, you’re the one who won’t tell me what the hell is even going on.”

“It’s future stuff, Sameen,” Root says in a placating tone. “It’s better if you don’t know. But sooner or later I’ll catch up on my timeline, and then we can talk about it.”

“Good,” Shaw says, lacing her shoes. “I’m getting tired of meeting in hotels like this.”

No healing anymore, so Root can’t risk going back into town until all is said and done. Wouldn’t want to bump into any other Roots. “ _I_ think it’s exciting. Forbidden sex.”

“Hardly ‘forbidden,’” Shaw says. “If I told your past self she’d probably ask to join.”

Root grins. It’s a scenario that’s crossed her mind at times.

***

(day of apotheosis)

 

Root checks her watch. Her past self should be en route to the safe house now, so they shouldn’t accidentally run across each other. She thanks the cab driver, pays him, and watches him drive off. Then she sets off. She can’t remember exactly where she left her car. It’s been nearly two months for her, after all. Her head still hurts occasionally, but Shaw had prescribed her some medication that mostly keeps the pain down. One of the side effects of extended use of time travel, she supposes. Or extended hosting of an extra intelligence inside her mind.

That’s a hole in herself that she tries to ignore as much as she can. Some days she’s successful, some days she’s not.

She finds her car, parked against a curb near a restaurant she and Shaw had gone to a few days ago. 

A few days ago for Shaw, at least. A few months for Root.

She unlocks the car, checks to make sure the backup weapons are still present in the glove compartment, and then sets off. Reese and Shaw will need some firepower, since their local Root has just stolen all of their weaponry. Or if she hasn’t, she will soon.

She parks a few blocks down from the safe house, and gets out of the car. She leaves the keys in the seat, and the doors unlocked.

She’ll walk the rest of the way. Better that she doesn’t arrive until her other self has hurtled herself months into the past. She’s not sure if the temporal dissonance time-clones bring about would be increased the more Roots that are present, and she’d rather not find out. No healing to fall back on anymore, except of the slow, painful variety.

***

“Hey, sweetie.”

“Fuck you.”

“Well, I was thinking we’d save it for later, but if you really -“

“Fuck you, Root.” Shaw grabs Root by the neck of her shirt and pulls her off the hood of the car onto the ground. “You never thought to fucking tell me, ‘Hey Shaw, when I disappear, I’m not actually dead!’ You never thought that _might_ be a piece of information it would be fucking useful for me to have?!”

“I’m not the only one who kept secrets, Sameen,” Root sniffs. “You never told me that you’d been meeting with my past self for two months.”

“Really? You wanna talk about secrets? How about ‘oh hey I can time travel?’ Or any of the other shit you didn’t tell me to keep me ‘safe.’” Shaw breathes heavily, the glint in her eyes murderous.

“Sameen, this is silly.” Root says. “You knew I was going to survive because you’d already seen my future self. You know time isn’t mutable like that.”

“I know _you_ think that,” Shaw lets Root go, and steps back. “When you tried to shoot yourself, I thought I had like… fucked up spacetime completely, or something. And then that thing in there,” she gestures vaguely at the warehouse.

“So that’s why you were worried,” Root says in a sort of matter-of-fact voice. “Because you thought we might have broken causality.”

Shaw doesn’t meet Root’s eyes. “That’s not the only reason.” After a few moments she sighs. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

“So am I.” Root says, taking Shaw’s hand. “Thanks to you, by the way.” 

Shaw doesn’t pull her hand away. Eventually, she asks, “So now that Samaritan’s gone, what are you going to do?”

“Sweetie, are you asking me to stay?”

“Yes.”

Root smiles broadly. “Then I’ll stay.”

***

Epilogue

 

Dr. Shaw steps into her morgue. She is unsurprised to see Special Agent Root lounging on a desk, munching on one of the apples she always seems to have. 

“I thought now that we lived together you wouldn’t be here so often.” 

“You know you miss me, Sameen.”

“I miss silence.”

“I can be silent.” 

Shaw snorts. “No you can’t.”

Root keeps her lips pressed firmly together and looks at Shaw like she’s proven a point. Sensing that she’ll spend the rest of her day accompanied by the newly-mute Special Agent unless she gives some form of acknowledgement, she says, “Fine, you can. Now get out of my morgue.”

Root hops of the desk and attaches herself to Shaw, arms looping around the doctor’s waist, body pressed against her back. “John’s a good partner,” Root says. “I still miss our little outings, though.”

Pushing away her baser instincts, Shaw shrugs herself out of Root’s grasp. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Your place?”

Shaw frowns at her. “Ours.”

Root grins. “I just like hearing you say it.” Boots clacking against the floor, she walks out of the morgue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! That’s end of this story, and this series. I really like it, and greatly enjoyed writing it. I hope other people found the world and the mechanics of it to be cool, or at least somewhat interesting. I’ve never really written anything like that before, so I think it was good practice for me. Thank you to everyone who has read, commented, or left kudos!


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